


Whatever Our Souls are Made Of

by crushermyheart08



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Family Loss, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27637052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushermyheart08/pseuds/crushermyheart08
Summary: "No one spoke and even when it was all over, when her last breath had passed, Robert hadn’t uttered a word." The Grantham family deal with a difficult passing.
Relationships: Cora Crawley/Robert Crawley
Kudos: 10





	1. Wordless

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Downton Abbey or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Hey all. I stumbled across this fic hiding in my drafts folder. I wrote it around this time last year and completely forgot about it, so I thought I'd give it a read through and finally publish it. I've no idea what on earth possessed me to write it - as death and grief are not subjects I often delve into. There are a couple of chapters, but I've yet to decide whether to post the latter ones. This is set sometime after the movie. Please read and review if you have the time. Would love to know your thoughts. As always, enjoy x

People say that grief makes ghosts of us all for a little while. We meander through the days, blindly stumbling through, half-dazed, half-dreaming that life has taken a different course. Senses numb and daylight fades away without a word. In the end there remains only one choice: to sink or to surrender.

All night Robert had stayed by his mother's bedside, quietly holding her hand as they waited for the inevitable end to come. Her face was pale in the flickering candlelight, frail body cocooned between soft pillows and blankets. She remained perfectly still, her life enfolded between her children's hands. In Robert's grasp there was a quiet resolve; in Rosamund's the slow but steady path towards peace. In the time before she'd slipped into unconsciousness Violet had said her farewells, insisting that they leave her be to pass in solitude. But Robert had refused, bravely and admirably so, and though the Dowager would never reveal herself by saying it aloud they could see how much comfort she took in their staying with her.

For seven long hours the Countess of Grantham lingered near the foot of the bed, occasionally standing to offer whatever comfort she could to her husband and sister-in-law: a fleeting, reassuring glance, the briefest of touches, however feeble and insignificant they might have felt. In the dim light of the Dowager's room time slowed to an infinitesimal rate. Doctor Clarkson waited nearby, curled into a chair, his words long soaked up by the passing stars. There was nothing more he, nor anyone else, could do except wait for the inevitable. Fears rose gradually, rising and falling as they teetered on the edge of the unknown for what felt like days. Years, even. No one spoke and even when it was all over, when her last breath had passed, Robert hadn't uttered a word.

Dull grey skies hung overhead when they finally stepped outside into the morning light. The air was heavy with the promise of rain, held in suspense - or perhaps it was simply the forbearance of the days that lay ahead: of telling the children, arranging the funeral, smoothing over the tear that had ripped, perhaps not quite as unexpectedly as it could have, through their lives. They'd suspected for some time that Violet had been ill. It was just that no one had dared speak of it aloud.

"You'll come for dinner later?" Cora asked softly, kissing her sister-in-law on the cheek. "We would stay, but we have to tell the girls. Unless-"

"No, no," Rosamund summoned a faint smile, eyes shining with unshed tears. "You go. You've done so much already. I'll see you both at dinner."

Throughout everything Rosamund had remained her usual stoic, immovable self, but in the late hours of the morning, when sleep had not come and dawn had brought reality crashing down on their shoulders, her facade was beginning to crack. Her smile faltered, and in the crease between her brows there lay the smallest fracture of distress.

"If you're sure?"

Rosamund swallowed audibly.

"I am."

Wrapping her coat tight around her Cora nodded, waiting patiently for Robert to take his leave. He was standing half on the bottom step of the stairs, frozen in mid-step as if he'd forgotten something. Then, shaking himself, he crossed the threshold into the garden. The roses were just beginning to wilt, their bright colours fading with the changing of the seasons. To the east the sycamores were ablaze with golden leaves. Some littered the front lawn, gathered into large piles by the gardeners that Violet was so fond of. _Had_ been so fond of, Cora reminded herself.

With a careful eye she watched her husband. He kissed Rosamund farewell on the cheek, parting in a somewhat swift and anxious manner. He didn't offer his arm as they walked to the car, didn't meet her eye once as the engine started and they began the journey back to Downton. Her chest heaved with a feeling that could only be described as overwhelmingly suffocating. An insurmountable barrier had risen between them, and while Robert stared aimlessly out of the window for the entire journey home, Cora soon came to realise his calm exterior was masking an unspeakable war of emotions within. Everything in her wanted to reach out to him, to hold his hand, let him know how devastatingly sorry she was, how much she too was hurting, but each time she edged closer he only moved further away. The smallest glance would have given her leave to approach him, to let her know that he was ready. Instead the hours dragged by in steady isolation and her heart ached for him and all they had lost.

...

She stood near the window, arms tight around her middle, absentmindedly watching the raindrops track their way down the glass. Somewhere behind her the fire crackled loudly, its light flickering over the four silent companions, and in the far distance the briefest flashes of lighting lit up the sky. A quiet roll of thunder soon followed.

Sybbie looked up from where she was playing in front of the fireplace with a bewildered expression. Her brow furrowed, glancing at her father who sat reading on the sofa, then her cousin who was painstakingly moving his army of toy soldiers across the carpet toward some unknown destination. Neither appeared at all alarmed by the noise, and so she picked up her doll, smoothed down her curly hair, her pale blue dress. And then the thunder came again and she sprang towards her grandmother.

Cora turned away from the library window as she felt the familiar tug on her skirt, bending down to lift the girl up in her arms and cuddle her close. She was getting a little heavy now, almost too old to indulge in being carried. Cora sighed faintly when she felt her granddaughter's arms wrapping loosely around her neck. Together they listened to the rain, how it hissed and pattered loudly against the pane, making sounds like tiny hammers.

"Grandmama?" Sybbie whispered quietly. "Is it alright if we talk now?"

Tom looked up from the book he was reading. Uncertainty flitted across his features and then a quiet conclusion. He blinked at his mother-in-law, giving her leave to make the decision.

"Of course, darling," Cora replied softly, her voice surprisingly steady. "I'm sorry we've all been a bit quiet this morning."

"Auntie Mary said..." Sybbie bit her lip, hesitating. "She said it's because everyone is sad."

Cora smiled shakily, affectionately, and pressed a kiss to Sybbie's forehead.

"Yes, my darling."

God knew she and Robert had seen enough death to last a lifetime. In a way it was a blessing that none of their grandchildren had known a death in the house, having each lost one of their parents before or just after their birth, and they had grown up never knowing the true effect those deaths had had on their family. They would never know how they'd screamed in the dead of night, how they had clung together, weeping, when no one could hear. And they would never know how, when there were no tears left to cry, they had struggled to piece their broken lives back together.

Sybbie frowned, thinking deeply as she fiddled with the collar on her grandmother's dress.

"Are people always quiet when they're sad?" she asked.

"Not always, no."

Cora startled as Tom appeared next to them, running a hand through his daughter's hair. He offered a watery smile, easing Sybbie out of her arms and into his own.

"When people are upset they can react differently. Some people don't speak at all, and other people can speak too much. They can be sad and hurt and sometimes angry too."

"Do you mean like Donk, Papa?"

Tom blanched, throwing an apologetic glance at his mother-in-law. The question in his gaze did not escape Cora's notice.

"Grandmama?"

She felt George's hand slip into hers, pulling insistently, having left his army of toy soldiers guarding one of the bookshelves.

"Yes, darling, what is it?"

She smoothed her hand through his hair, brows knitting together as George pointed in the direction of the large cedars across the green. There was a man walking toward them, barely visible through the shower of rain.

"Where is Grandpapa going?"

Her heart faltered. There, some distance away, was her husband, trudging determinedly through the rain. He moved like some sort of ghostly apparition, his footsteps taking him further and further away from the house. Her hand found the crook of Tom's arm, voice barely above a whisper.

"I won't be a moment."

"Cora-" Tom started. But she had already left the room.


	2. Brokenly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Downton Abbey or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Hey all. Thank you so much to everyone who has read so far! Here is Chapter 2. I do have a little more written up, but as I said before I'm still editing it. I probably could have ended it here but I do like to end my stories on a moderately happy note. Please read and review if you have the time. I'd love to know your thoughts. As always, enjoy x

Her voice sounded distant as she called his name, overpowered by the rain tumbling down from the autumn skies overhead. He was soaked through, squinting at some distant point on the horizon. Hard lines surrounded his mouth, his deepest, quietest emotions etched into his skin. He didn't sway, didn't flinch as she stepped closer, arms wrapped around her waist in a meagre attempt to keep the brewing cold at bay.

"Robert, come back inside. What are you thinking of standing out here in the rain?"

The ends of his greying hair were plastered haphazardly across his forehead, his jacket scattered with the tiniest raindrops that had yet to soak into the darkening fabric.

"Do come back in, darling," she called. "Mary and Henry haven't come downstairs yet, and Tom, Sybbie and George are waiting in the library wondering where you are."

If Robert had heard her he made no effort to show it.

"Please, Robert, they haven't seen you all night-"

"Not now, Cora."

They were the first words he'd spoken to her all morning. His voice was rough, tight, a hollow impression of his usual mellow tone, and there was a strange sort of emptiness to it that frightened her. With alarming speed the rain grew harsher, momentarily obscuring her view, and she wiped the raindrops furiously from her eyes.

"Robert-"

"Just leave me be!" He barked agitatedly, temper rising with his tone. "I don't want discuss it. I don't want to think; I don't want to feel anything." He span on his heels, pushing past her. "There's no need to treat me like a child. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself."

"Robert, darling, be reasonable-"

"Reasonable?" His eyes flashed, alight with something dangerously close to rage. "Reasonable?"

Cora stiffened, swallowing hard. His jaw clamped shut and, having apparently said all he wished to say, went back to standing with his hands behind his back, staring once more at some distant horizon as if nothing had happened. Exhaling shakily, she refrained from uttering the sharp reply that lingered precariously on the tip of her tongue. Then, after a few more moments, Robert sighed deflatedly.

"Go back inside, Cora. I'd prefer to be alone, if you don't mind."

Rain seeped beneath her collar and she shivered, hands tight around her waist. He hadn't bought a coat and neither, in her absentmindedness, had she. Already she could feel her clothes clinging to her skin, the fabric wrinkling and twisting.

"If you need to be alone then come inside and sit by the fire, or in your armchair, where it's warm." Cora held out her hand, willing him to take it. "Please, Robert, that's all I'm asking. I don't want you to catch cold."

"I am perfectly fine, thank you," Robert snapped.

Over the years she had learnt to deal with his temper, his habit of keeping his worries to himself. Often she would wait for him, trusting that he would eventually confide in her and all the tension and anxiety that plagued his waking thoughts would come rising to the surface. His emotions ran deep, deeper than perhaps anyone except she knew, and regardless of what he said it was quickly becoming clear that the last thing her husband needed was to be alone.

Swallowing the tightening knot in her throat Cora let her gaze wonder over him, taking in the way his hands balled into fists, the pained tightening of the muscles in his back. Amidst the flurry of rain he stood motionless, as rigid as stone. Seconds drew into minutes and still he did not move, the irregular heaving of his chest the only sign that he was truly there.

"Don't push me away, Robert. Not now. Not this time." She stepped slowly through the sodden grass, each step heavy with an invisible weight. "I know you're heartbroken. We all are. But... standing out here alone isn't going to change things, no matter how much you wish it might."

He looked at her then, finally, and the sheer devastation on his face was like a physical pain that bloomed in the pit of her stomach. Her hand stretched out toward him, begging him to let her in, and for the briefest of moments he seemed to consider it.

"You don't understand."

"Then help me understand," Cora pleaded, crossing the space between them and gripping his frozen hands in hers, holding on tight when he tried to escape her grasp. "This pain is not yours to bear alone. I am your wife, here and now and forever, and mark my words, Robert, I refuse to stand by and watch the person I love most on this earth hurting in silence."

Moments passed; thunder rumbled on the horizon. And then, piece by piece, his indomitable mask crumbled away. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, felt his hands shaking beneath her touch, whether from cold or anger or grief she could not tell. Eventually the words came; brokenly, and then all at once.

"For as long as I can remember I have dreaded this day," Robert whispered, "and now that it is finally here I find I do not know how I can possibly bear it all. It's as if I've become a ghost and the whole world is out of my reach."

He let go of her hands, passed a hand over his face. Raindrops dripped from his trembling chin and his eyes clouded over with long-suppressed memories. Whatever anger, whatever regret he had been bottling up now seemed to escape him in a great rush of air.

"When my father died my mother came out here, to this very spot. I remember watching her from the library window, just standing there, as if she were waiting for someone. She was only out in the rain for a few minutes. But it was enough. She was quite herself again after that." He laughed a little, the sound tinged with a melancholic sadness. "I never saw my mother cry, not properly, but I knew she was crying that day. Even if it were only for five minutes. Five minutes of weakness, she would have called it. But I feel that somehow it was one of the bravest things she ever did. I... I know it might seem terribly silly of me, but I wanted to do as my mother had. I think, had she been here to say it, it's what she would have told me to do."

Without hesitation Cora took his face in her hands and kissed his cheek gently, tasting the salt of his tears and the sweetness of the November rain. For that had been the point, had it not? To hide his emotions, to conceal his grief behind a mask of rain and thunder as furious as the storm raging within him? Had his eyes not held a darkening sorrow, had his lips not trembled with fear, perhaps no one would have seen the silent tears that fell and mingled with the rain. But she, his companion, his wife, did, and her eyes glistened as she ran her fingers over the stubble on his jaw, fighting to keep control over her voice.

"You don't have to hide your tears from me, Robert."

He attempted a smile, albeit thin and weary, surrendering to her touch. Cora sighed inaudibly, a sense of relief flooding through her veins.

"I know, but I wanted to try," he spoke lowly. "If only for the sake of the grandchildren." A hand came to rest over hers; his lips pressed to her knuckles. "They shouldn't be subjected to seeing me like this."

"Children don't always understand how to cope with grief," Cora replied, her voice breaking a little. "They need to understand that it's alright to mourn. To cry. To feel whatever it is they're feeling." She wiped more tears from beneath his tired eyes, rested her fingers against his jaw. "I know it might sound terribly American of me to say it, but I think they do need to see you like this. It's up to us now, Robert, to show them how to go on."

He exhaled wryly, the slightest sliver of amusement appearing as he squinted at his wife.

"It is very American of you to say such a thing."

He squeezed her hand; she shivered.

"We had the chance to say goodbye, Robert," Cora whispered, offering a silver lining, however small it seemed. "Not everyone is so lucky."

"I know." He thought of Matthew, and their darling, darling Sybil. Of the unborn child they never had the chance to meet. Of his father. The war. All the men and women who had died under the roof of Downton, lives taken unexpectedly from this world and onto the next before their time. "I know that all too well."

Her eyes sparkled with tears; he kissed her crown, lips lingering against her hairline as he breathed her in, let her support his burdens if only for a little while. Slowly her hands wound under his jacket and around his back, face buried in his chest.

"Cora, dear, you're shaking with cold," he murmured. "Go back inside. I'll be in in a moment."

But she shook her head determinedly, pressing herself closer as her own emotions, refusing to be kept at bay any longer, spilled over.

"I'm warm enough here with you."

He felt her shoulders shake, her fingers gripping the back of his shirt as she cried, but she did not make a sound. Wordlessly he wrapped his arms around her, a hand coming to tangle in the back of her hair. And as the rain fell, surrounding them in a shower of silvery thread, he lost himself in the way her body moulded to his and the overflowing of his own grief.


	3. Measured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Downton Abbey or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Hello all. Apologies for the extremely late update!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed so far! Your very kind words and insights are greatly appreciated. Surprisingly, I found several extra drafts of this story hidden away in my documents, and after much deliberation I've endeavoured to piece them together and write another few chapters - which is why this update has taken so long! I must have rewritten this one at least twenty times. Anyway, here is Chapter 3. Pease read and review if you have the time. I would love to know what you think. As always, enjoy x

A loud sweeping groan echoed across the Great Hall as the door closed behind the Earl and Countess of Downton. The thick wood muffled the onslaught of rain, replacing the sound with a sudden, deafening silence, and the sombre peace of a house in mourning. Her hand, locked in his, burned with a familiar sensation: the feel of his pulse against her wrist, rising, stammering, caught in a warring tide of emotion.

Raindrops trickled across his temple in a steady stream, curving beneath his jaw. Behind closed doors she would have reached up to brush them away, but here, in a place of continuous passage where one's privacy was fleeting, she hesitated. And it was in that hesitation, in a mere matter of seconds, that Robert's demeanour changed entirely.

Gone were the soft creases around his lips, the defeated slump of his shoulders. Lord Grantham stood tall and proud and resolute, as if the very air had given him an assertion of strength. But in his gaze there remained an unsettling emptiness, his mind lost to a raging sea of disoriented thought.

Cora squeezed his hand, questioning, but he did not respond, and when she tried to recoil he only held on tighter, as if he feared he might fall apart without it.

"Mama!"

Cora looked up as Mary, her eldest daughter, came down the staircase towards them, her face aghast with incredulity. Though she may not have looked it, her pace demanding no urgency, the fright held in her tone was clear.

"Oh, for goodness sake. You're soaked through, the both of you!"

Her husband followed closely behind, the usual spring in his step reduced to a solemn walk.

"Don't fuss, Mary," Henry cajoled, but his own equally troubled expression betrayed his easy countenance.

Cora felt rather than saw Robert's hand slip from hers, his gaze trained on the far wall, oblivious to the world moving about him.

"What on earth possessed you to go out for a walk in this weather?" Mary exclaimed. "And on today of all days. I do hope George didn't see you arriving in such a state. Honestly, what would-"

Mary's red-rimmed eyes flicked from her mother to her father. The unspoken words were too delicate to speak aloud, and though Robert may not have had the presence of mind to hear them, Cora certainly did.

"Edith telephoned." Mary straightened under her mother's warning gaze, forcing a marginal smile. "They'll be on the three o'clock train and here in time for dinner. I've made all the necessary arrangements."

Cora exhaled quietly, nodding her understanding. Then, without a word, Robert began to walk towards the staircase, each step measured carefully. He moved as if in a trance. Or a daydream, perhaps. Pulled away by some invisible force.

"Mama?" Mary lowered her voice, struggling to find the proper words. "Papa he... He'll be alright, won't he?"

"Of course he will, darling." Cora's voice cracked with cold, but she would not succumb to the fears that had begun to spread in her mind. Summoning a faint smile, she reached out and grasped her daughter's hand tightly. "Your father will need all of us in the days ahead. We must be strong for him, Mary. We must be _brave_."

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, moving steadily at first, and then hastily in a rush of motion.

"Is everything alright, Milady?" Mrs Hughes approached them, lips pinched together. "I thought I heard the front door."

She took in Cora's somewhat dishevelled appearance with a remarkable calm, eyes lingering on the floor before returning to meet the Countess's gaze.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Hughes," Cora replied. "Everything is quite alright."

Reluctantly she glanced down at the place her Housekeeper's attention had been drawn to and, upon seeing the large puddles gathering beneath her feet and the mud they had traipsed through the great hall, she felt an unshakable sense of embarrassment.

"I'm very sorry about the mess," Cora apologised. "His Lordship and I were just taking a turn around the grounds."

"It's no matter," Mrs Hughes blinked thoroughly, schooling her features to hide an expression of mild bewilderment.

In the corner of her eye Cora observed her husband reach the top of the stairs and lean against the balustrade. He stood still for a moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, and then continued the slow but steady walk towards his dressing room.

"Would you be so kind and let Baxter know I'm going up."

"Of course," the housekeeper replied. "I'll let Mr Bates know too."

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

"If I may, Milady, I..." Her hands wrung together and then settled, her words gathered with eloquent practice. "I'd like to say how very sorry we all are about her Ladyship. She was very much loved here at Downton. By all of us. If there's anything we can do for you all - anything at all - please do let us know."

Cora blinked, chest constricting at the sincerity held within each word. Years of experience never quite prepared one for such kindness, the sympathy painted on familiar faces. She didn't anticipate the inevitable well of emotion that rose up and cut off her reply, tightening like a fist in the back of her throat. It was all she could do to press her lips together and nod her thanks, unable to voice her appreciation and gratitude.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes," Mary answered eventually.

A figure moved out of the shadows, having stayed on the periphery of the ladies' exchange with a watchful, concerned eye.

"I think I'll go and see how our little soldier is doing," said Henry.

Fleetingly he caught his wife's hand, offering a brief reassuring squeeze, a flicker of warmth amidst the cold shroud that was slowly beginning to engulf the household. The library door closed quietly behind him; all was still once more.

"I really am very sorry about the mess." Cora began after a few moments, recollecting her thoughts. "It was rather thoughtless of us."

"It's only a little rainwater, Milady. It'll be cleaned up in no time, I'm sure," Mrs Hughes spoke kindly. "Now, if you'll allow me to say so, might I suggest you go and rest? There's quite a few hours yet before dinner."

Cora sighed, torn between finding solace in the peace of her room and staying to comfort her family.

"I confess I am a little tired."

Tired was an understatement. The thirty something hours she had spent awake were beginning to take their toll, and her heart, now heavy with grief, ached terribly. For Violet; for Robert; for Rosamund. For her children and grandchildren. For all of them.

"Are you sure you're alright, Milady?" Mrs Hughes asked, and Cora realised, with some discomfort, that she was still shaking.

"Mary-"

"You heard Mrs Hughes, Mama," Mary interrupted firmly, but not unkindly. "Go and rest. We'll have everything in hand here, won't we, Mrs Hughes?"

The housekeeper gave a firm nod.

"And I'm sure Henry and Tom will be content to play toy soldiers with George for a few more hours. Don't worry, Mama. All will be well."

"I'll ask Daisy to make up some tea, shall I?" the housekeeper asked.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes," Mary agreed with a small smile. "That would be most welcome."

The lady nodded shortly and began her journey back towards the servant's stairway, her heels clicking against the wooden floor as she went. Only when she was out of sight did Mary's expression change, her infallible mask slipping.

"Aunt Rosamund will be here in time for dinner," Cora began. "Would you keep her company until your father and I come down?"

"Of course, Mama," Mary replied softly.

"I know dinner seems like the most insignificant thing in the world right now," Cora sighed, "but I think it'll help us get through the next few hours at least."

Rosamund especially would need the company, whether she admitted it or not.

Studying her eldest daughter, Cora wondered if she should reveal her thoughts to an already burdened mind, whether her words would spark a tidal wave of disconnect or a sense of solidarity.

"It's alright, Mama." Mary edged closer to her mother, seeming to understand what she was saying. "Granny wouldn't have wanted us to cancel dinner on her account. She'd want us all to be together. To remember her."

Cora offered a small smile.

"I quite agree."

"Besides, it's only us," Mary shrugged. "It's not as if we're having a great social gathering with Uncle Tom Cobley and all."

Her eyes lowered as she turned over some tangled, worrisome thought in her mind, and for a moment she appeared as she had many years ago, in the dead of night, tiptoeing into her mother's room after a frightening nightmare, wondering why she couldn't make the monsters go away.

"Mary, what is it?"

Little by little her battle-weary armour fell away, and her face crumpled.

"I'm sorry Henry and I didn't come down sooner," Mary answered slowly, struggling to connect her thoughts. "We've witnessed so many deaths in this house. I didn't think I could bear another. I couldn't bring myself to face the fact that... that Granny is truly gone. Caroline is too young to understand, but George... I think he knows." She swallowed tightly, smoothed her hands over her black skirt. "I've spoken with Henry. We'll go and see Granny tomorrow. Isobel and Lord Merton are with her now."

There would be many family members arriving over the next few days to pay their respects. The current quietude was a blessing indeed.

Taking her daughter's hand, Cora pressed every ounce of reassurance she possessed into it. Grief was no stranger to the Crawley family. They'd born death before, in so many inconceivable way. Each unique and precious. A vibrant memory of life.

"Oh, Mama," Mary sighed, wiping the tired circles beneath her eyes with a handkerchief. "However shall we manage without her? How shall we bear it?"

As the clock struck two, mother and daughter stood together, each clutching the other's hand and finding solace in the passing silence.

Violet would forever be with them. In every room. In every moment. No doubt watching the world move on in equal measures of consternation and unparalleled pride.

"We shall bear it together, my darling," Cora whispered after a little while. "With grace and faith."

Mary sniffed, a bubble of disbelieving laughter springing to the surface.

"Whatever happened to stiff upper lip?"

A true stoicism if ever there was one. Violet had indeed trained her granddaughter well.

Cora's gaze drifted toward the balcony. Mary's followed with comparable concern.

"I'm sorry, Mama," Mary said, slipping once more behind a mask of fortitude. "I shouldn't have left you to hold the fort on your own. Had I known Papa..."

"Don't worry about that now, darling," Cora smiled with calm assurity. "We'll see you at dinner."


	4. Bleary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Downton Abbey or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Hello all. Thanks for bearing with me on this one. These two chapters have been a little difficult to write, but we're nearly at the end of this story. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed so far! I love hearing your thoughts. Here is Chapter 4. Pease read and review if you have the time. As always, enjoy x

"Are you warm enough, Milady?"

Through bleary eyes, Lady Grantham focused on the figure reflected in the dressing table mirror, struggling to make sense of the words floating around the room. The fire crackled and burned, filling the air with a warmth that did not quite meet her chilled skin. Rich earthy fumes emanated from the hearth, mingling with the faintest trace of elderflower. She shivered, and Baxter pulled the winter shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"Better?"

Cora tilted her head, and that was acknowledgement enough.

Steam rose from the teacup cradled between her hands, and she watched as it wafted up against the cool window pane to create soft meandering patterns like winds upon a desert dune. Through the opaque glass she could make out the distant hills and woodland, the shroud of grey rain that cascaded down over their estate. The daylight hours never lasted long during the late autumn months, and the sun often dipped below the horizon before the clock hand could reach four.

Winter afternoons offered the opportunity to curl up with a well-read book from the library and a selection of spiced, seasonal beverages. But during the summer, when the weather was kinder and the days longer, Cora would often wander the grounds with her husband, play games with her grandchildren and, on occasion, plan a picnic.

Her mother-in-law had loved picnics.

They had shared many disagreements over the years. Some of a trivial, menial nature; others of such staggering gravity as to cause the most terrible headaches. They were, in many ways, like two sides of the same coin. Violet's intense disapproval of anything decidedly American, or worse of a modern design, was something she had never endeavoured to conceal, and yet they had eventually formed an unlikely alliance.

"Shall I ask Mrs Patmore to make you something to eat, Milady?" Baxter pressed gently, her voice betraying her veiled concern. "A bowl of soup, maybe? Or some toast?"

"No," Cora answered quietly, though she sensed Baxter's increasing unease.

"A little food might do you some good," Baxter continued lightly, "if you don't mind me saying so. I don't mean to sound impertinent, but you hardly ate anything at breakfast."

"I'm afraid I still haven't much of an appetite," Cora replied, grateful for the kindness of her lady's maid, "but thank you, Baxter."

A gust of wind sent leaves fluttering against the pane, and Cora contented herself with quietly sipping her tea. The silence stretched on as Baxter finished plaiting her hair and tied a loose black ribbon at the end.

Muffled footsteps moved across the room. Clothes were folded, rearranged, the washroom tidied - and all in a seamless motion of practice and patience. In the glassy reflection, Cora watched her work, her gaze following the band of dark fabric tied around her upper arm.

Often she and Baxter would converse with complete confidence and trust, knowing that whatever they spoke of, whatever thoughts they chose to utter would never venture beyond the four walls of her room. Had Baxter possessed a bolder character she might have given voice to those thoughts, giving further weight to the day's emotional upheaval. Instead, her quiet nature created a wave of considerable calm as she busied herself with her duties, and Cora was ever-thankful for her maid's gentle integrity and compassionate disposition.

She was a friend she had come to cherish over the years.

"I think I'd like to sleep now," Cora managed, rising from the dressing table and sinking onto the chaise almost simultaneously.

"You'd be more comfortable on the bed, Milady," Baxter offered, reaching for an extra throw.

"Here will be just fine," Cora promised, already leaning back against the cushions and drawing up her knees.

Her head met the pillow; the world spun in and out of focus, until her attention was drawn to the door that separated their rooms. The door that was never, and never had been, locked.

She wondered if Robert was asleep. She wondered if he was warm. If he was lying wide awake in the adjoining dressing room staring up at the ceiling as he usually did whenever he was troubled. She should have gone to him, held him, but the hours had swiftly caught up with her and the power she held over her flailing emotions was waning with every heartbeat.

He would come to her if he needed to.

"There." Baxter tucked the last blanket around her Lady's shoulders, smoothing down the fabric before placing a gentle hand against the Countess's forehead, her brow knitting anxiously. "You're sure you don't want me to ring for Dr Clarkson? It might be best - just to be on the safe side. You might have caught cold."

"Quite sure, thank you," Cora replied, voice barely above a whisper.

Baxter frowned, her eyes crinkling, but she did not argue.

"Very well, Milady."

There would be a time, a little while from now, to address the untamed thoughts and feelings that continued to gather together under the gravity of a vaguely realised reality. In all truth, Baxter was more than likely correct. She was about a lot of things.

There was an intolerable tightness to her skin, a relentless chill that pressed against her temple. But for now all Cora wanted to do was to rest, to sleep, to sink down into the depths of oblivion.

Rising to her feet, Baxter rearranged the blankets once more to make certain that her Lady was comfortable, as she always did. Even in her tired and half-conscious state, Cora doubted if she would have said anything to the contrary, for Baxter very rarely did anything to warrant complaint.

"Do you need anything else, Milady?"

Cora shook her head tiredly, already loosing herself in the soft pillows.

"I'll leave you to get some sleep, then," Baxter spoke softly. "I'll be back before the dressing gong."

She would have willingly given into sleep were it not for the sneeze that sounded from the adjoining room.

"Baxter?"

"Yes, Milady?"

Her gaze, as blurred as it was, found the general direction of her maid's voice and she summoned what was left of her conscious mind to keep her tone as steady as possible.

"Would you do me a favour and see if his Lordship is alright?"

"I'm sure Mr Bates has everything in hand," Baxter replied. Her expression shifted, as if she had seen, somehow, the slightest quiver of distress on her Lady's face. "But I'll check in on His Lordship all the same. We'll make sure he's quite alright and see that he gets some rest before dinner."

Cora exhaled quietly, relief flooding the room.

"Thank you, Baxter. That's... That's very kind of you."

"Not at all, Milady," Baxter smiled softly. "Rest now."


	5. Solace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Hello all! Apologies for the very slow update on this story! I'm sorry to have left you all waiting for so long. We have at last reached the end. I struggled writing this last chapter, but I feel it has reached its conclusion and I didn't want to drag it out any further. Thank you so much to everyone who has read and left a review! Here is the final chapter. As always, enjoy x

Dinner was a quiet affair. Conversations brewed and simmered, offering vague diversions from a prominent absence that lingered as a strange weight over the room. No one spoke of it, or gave it a name, and yet it was felt keenly by all. Words were considered, separated by intermittent pauses that inevitably gave way to conventional silence.

Only the gentle tapping of rain served as a constant companion.

The women departed first; the men, as was tradition, stayed a while longer.

By the warmth of the fire the ladies drew together, each absorbed in their own thoughts and a familial understanding. Heat emanated from the fireplace as a comforting blanket, cocooning them in a timeless disillusion where history collided with reality. There was little to be said. Nothing so unnecessary as sympathy to be exchanged.

The men, pursued by a vague aroma of alcohol and tobacco, eventually entered the library to join the rest of the family. Tall black shadows crept over the carpet as the red flames flickered, and one by one they retreated to refill their empty brandy glasses.

Sybbie slept peacefully in her grandmother's embrace, tossing only when the rain grew louder against the pane. Rosamund watched her with an almost wistful gaze. Huddled on the opposite sofa, Mary and Edith sat together, each clutching handkerchiefs that had been well-used over the years.

It wasn't long before Tom rose to take his daughter in his arms, and bade them all a silent goodnight.

Gradually the memories came. Tales of humiliating scoldings. Exaggerated arguments. Grand events. Summer Bizarres. Banquets. Balls. Every kind of riveting social gathering. Henry and Bertie listened to their wives attentively, and laughter and tears filled the air with a warmth that lingered, suspended amidst years of fond recollections.

The clock had long passed eleven o'clock by the time their children made their way upstairs, leaving the three adults alone in the light of the dying embers. With quiet consideration Cora observed the two souls she had embraced as family. To her left: her husband, Robert, his head bowed, gazing into a void no other could see. And to her right: Rosamund, as poised and collected as ever, sipping the last of her sherry. In both there had been engrained a sense of duty and obligation. A legacy gifted by their father; a responsibility nurtured by their mother.

Only when Robert rose to refill their glasses did Rosamund finally find her voice. As her brother handed her another sherry, she turned to him with a flicker of irony, and said, "Well, it looks like it's just us now."

Time had changed many things over the course of their lives, forever burdened with revolutionary progression, but Violet had always been a constant. An ever-fixed mark. The last of her generation.

"You know, Mama and I had our quarrels over the years," Rosamund began, staring absentmindedly beyond the flames. "I rarely sought her advice or needed her counsel - though she would often give it regardless. We disagreed upon so many things. Right from the start, it would seem. I wish we'd gotten along better. I may never have said it aloud, but that hardly means..." She shook her head lightly, blinking away the sudden uprising of memory. "Anyway." She took another sip of sherry. "It hardly matters now, does it?"

Robert squinted in reply, seeking a comfort he knew not how to give.

"You're much more like Mama than you realise," he said quietly.

Rosamund scoffed.

"Oh, I beg to differ," she replied quickly, her tone dangerously sharp. "We very rarely saw eye to eye on anything."

"You have her temper, and her wit," said Robert, "and her formidability."

"And you have her stubbornness," Rosamund countered, and then, a moment later, "and her heart." Her smile quivered. "It's strange, isn't it? How one only realises the true value of someone when they are gone."

"It is an inevitability we must endure," Cora offered.

Robert inclined his head in agreement.

"I'd like to think that is not always the case," he said.

"Then you're one of the lucky ones," Rosamund remarked, but there was no trace of sarcasm in her tone. She rose a little unsteadily. "I think I'll say goodnight now. It's been a long day."

"You will call us if you need anything?" Cora reached for her sister-in-law's hands. "Anything at all."

"I shan't imagine I will," Rosamund answered, "but thank you, my dear."

Cora nodded her understanding, and watched her walk towards the library door and close it behind her.

Grief welled for the umpteenth time. Slowly, steadily, she let her tears fall, for only the glowing embers and her husband remained to witness them now.

"I miss her, Robert."

"As do I."

She shifted as her husband moved closer, a little startled by the feel of his fingers circling her wrist. His touch was as warm as burning coals against her still chilled skin, though the fire was warm and soothing.

"Your hands are cold," he whispered, running a thumb over her knuckles.

She wiped at her eyes, sinking beneath the weight of the day and the days that had yet to arrive. Of the letters to be sent. The dinners to be cancelled. The inconsolation that would no doubt seep into every waking moment, and the tears that would fall unchecked. She could hear Robert's faint breathing beside her, feel the gentle caress of his palm. He was not a man of many words, nor indeed of a temperate nature, but he had a resolute kindness that she had known in no other. It was, after all, his kindness that had stolen her heart all those years ago.

"Cora?"

"Yes?"

"I feel I must apologise for earlier-"

"Shhh." Her hand reached out to splay over his chest, feel the pace of his quickening heartbeat. "Shhh, Robert, don't think on it now."

An indecipherable reply rumbled deep in his chest. Fatigue continued to wash over her like a heavy weight, thoughts fleeing from her grasp, and yet she found herself wondering, not for the first time that day, if Robert wasn't telling her something more. His face, illuminated by the glow of the fire, cast half in shadow, was marked with worry and doubt. It was an expression she recognised all too well. One she had witnessed more times than she cared to remember.

A hand found its way into her hair and she shivered when she felt his lips press against her forehead, his words whispered into her pale skin.

"I didn't mean to push you away. That is, I didn't want to," Robert blundered tiredly. "I mean... What I'm trying to say is..." His eyes flickered open, fingers entwining with hers, a sea of strange calm. "I'm afraid there may be dark days ahead."

She squeezed his hand tightly.

"Nothing darker than what we've already faced together."

Patiently Cora waited for words that had yet to form, and in the waiting, the steadying stillness, Robert recollected himself.

"I feel like a damned fool."

"You are many, many things, Robert Crawley," Cora spoke warmly, a hand on his cheek. "A fool is not one of them."

He smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes.

"You're shaking."

Cora shook her head defiantly.

"I'm just a little cold."

Carefully he wrapped her in his arms, pressing himself as close to her as possible. Her breath was hot against his shoulder, a trembling rhythm that soon settled.

"We'll all miss her, Robert. So very dearly. But she's still here." She touched his chest. "And here." Her own. "And a part of her will always remain at Downton, along with everyone else who has lived and has yet to live under this roof."

He nodded solemnly.

"I'll endeavour to remember that."

...

It was in the following weeks that the memories came, often in the quietest of moments. Sometimes vivid, sometimes vague, but always when they were least expected. On occasion Cora would hear her mother-in-law's voice, tempered and brisk, waltzing between the passageways as they made their way to dinner. Or at a hospital meeting: her relentless objections and stoic dislike of anything resembling a changing future. She saw her in the roses in Mr Moseley's garden, and in the oak leaves that changed from golden to brown. During her afternoon walks she would often her the tapping of her mother-in-law's cane against the gravel path. And her mannerisms, her wit and her kindness she saw in Mary and Edith as they grew into the women she always knew they would become.

But perhaps it was in the library that the memories were strongest of all, in a place where solace and refuge was often sought. When they were nestled around the fire, listening to the crackle and burn of the logs, and white snowflakes flurried against the window pane.

People say that grief makes ghosts of us all for a little while. But as the days pass and the clock hand ticks forever forward, grief will inevitably, and eventually, give way to healing. Storms on the horizon subside and the first flickers of sunlight will surely begin to sparkle through. And the heavy weight one thinks will never leave will lift as pain blooms into healing, and healing fades to memory.


End file.
